


nothing shines upon

by Red (S_Hylor), SirSapling



Series: sing you a lullaby [2]
Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, C-Section, Depression, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mpreg, Perinatal Depression, Postpartum Depression, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Is Not Okay, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Surgery, Ults Day, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unwanted Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/Red, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirSapling/pseuds/SirSapling
Summary: The New Year brings about a few changes. Stark knows about the pregnancy now. He organises doctors and appointments, and is at Steve's apartment more often than not. It makes Steve feel less lonely, having company that will talk to him, rather than just feeding off him like a parasite.It changes things.That doesn't mean it makes them better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here we are. Part two, as promised. I wasn't lying when I said that [SirSapling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirSapling) and I were writing a sequel. 
> 
> This story is complete, though the chapter count might change as we continue to edit. Chapters will go up once a week (look at me being a successful author with a posting schedule). 
> 
> Content warning: this fic deals with a lot of depressive and emotionally unhealthy themes and feelings. Despite the way Steve feels and thinks about the foetus/baby, he made a very deliberate choice not to get an abortion, having every intention to give it up for adoption later (he didn’t plan the specifics that far ahead). That said, Sap and I would like everyone to know that we are both extremely pro-choice, and this isn’t a representation of our own morals and thoughts. Steve is legit living my worst nightmare. But for the sake of the plot, and the sake of angst, Steve, through deliberate choices, or through denial and inaction, didn’t get an abortion, didn’t even entertain the idea.
> 
> If there are any further triggers/warnings or personal concerns that anyone has about this story, please feel free to contact either [Sap](http://sirsapling.tumblr.com//) or [ me](http://s-hylor.tumblr.com/) via tumblr. 
> 
>    
> Shout out to the lovely [KittKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittKat) for the beta work, again. Was greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Title from the second verse of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Did anyone else know there was a second verse? I didn't. I feel like I've been lied to my whole life.
> 
> Now, on with the story.
> 
> Cheers, Red

The room is pristine, clinically so, all clean lines and medical diagrams on the walls. Steve sits in one of the chairs in the room set aside for patients, feeling like he’s about to be court-martialed. There’s a bisected diagram of a pregnant female hanging on the wall opposite him, skin cut away to show the baby inside. It’s clean and clinical, just like the room, but he can’t stand the sight of it. It makes his stomach twist in a way that he knows comes from his own roiling emotions and not from the parasite moving about inside him. He thinks he’d rather be back in the war, listening to to men screaming as they bleed out choking on their own blood; would rather be trying to hold a man’s insides together than looking at that picture.

Stark shifts in the seat beside him, leaning forward to look at the still images of the CT scan on the computer screen as the doctor says something.

Doctor Andrews is a lady in her late fifties. The lines in her skin and grey in her hair make her look sophisticated, knowledgeable, but there’s a sharpness to her features that make her seem less maternal than most of the other female doctors. It was the reason that Steve had picked her out of the catalogue of potential doctors Stark had dropped off to him a few days after the New Year. She looked no nonsense and Steve needed that. She calls the parasite a foetus, calls Steve by his name, and didn’t even bat an eye when she first saw him. He knows that Stark would have explained the situation to her, but the lack of judgement was nice all the same.

He isn’t focusing on what they’re saying, even though he knows he should be, can’t stop staring at the picture across the room, despite the way it makes his stomach twist and turn uncomfortably. He feels sick, feels like he’s going to throw up. Edging forward on his seat, he bends over as much as he can, elbows braced on his knees, head tipped down, sucking in deep breaths to force away the nauseous feelings, the too loud beat of his pulse in his ears. The position puts pressure on his distended stomach, which in turn puts pressure on his bladder and that just adds to the overall general feeling of discomfort and misery that’s plagued him for the last few months.

“Steve? Are you okay, darling?” Stark is right there, closer than before, a line of radiated warmth down his right side, a hand settled tentatively on his lower back.

It makes him want to move away from him, but he can’t find the energy to. He’s not sure he really wants to, or just wants to want to. It’s all become hazy and confusing the more time Stark spends around him.

When he doesn’t answer, the concern in Stark’s voice ramps up a notch. “What’s wrong? Is it bump?”

Gritting his teeth, he shakes his head, because he can’t stand the worry in Stark’s voice, and he can’t feel anything wrong with the parasite. It’s fine right where it is, sitting on his bladder and making him uncomfortable. He isn’t even sure how to explain what is wrong; the fact that an image is affecting him so much makes him feel like a fool. He’s supposed to be better put together than this. In the end he just lifts one hand up to gesture vaguely in the direction of the diagram on the opposite wall.

Stark’s hand stays on his back for a few more seconds before moving away. At the same time he feels Stark shift beside him, he hears the brush of fabric and footsteps and the rustle of paper and clatter of plastic. He takes a few more deep breaths, sternly telling himself to stop being so foolish and overly sensitive about everything. He opens his eyes to find Stark crouched in front of him, close but not touching.

“It’s okay now, Steve.” Stark tells him, voice low, eyes too soft and concerned, the same way he’s been looking at him since Christmas. Part of Steve really wishes he’d stop looking at him like that. Another part hopes he never stops, despite knowing that it’s all going to end as soon as the parasite is out of him and it and Stark disappear from his life again.

When he can’t take that expression from Tony anymore, he lifts his head up again; sure enough, the diagram has been turned around on its plastic hanger so the blank back of it stares out across the room. The room feels less oppressive without it, the need to throw up not nearly as strong as before. Pushing his hands against his knees, Steve sits up straight, feeling stupid at how grateful he is that he can no longer see the image. Stark stays crouched in front of him for a moment longer before he stands up again, moving to sit beside Steve again, hand gently resting on his shoulder for a moment before he’s out of his space again.

Doctor Andrews, thankfully, doesn’t comment on what happened, though there’s a look of understanding and empathy in her eyes that Steve catches before she turns her focus back to the computer screen.

“As I was explaining, the CT results only seem to confirm the results of the last ultrasound. Whatever connection there was at the time of conception isn’t there now. The uterus appears to be a free standing system, still connected to your body via nervous and circulatory systems, but there’s no obvious birth canal,” Doctor Andrews explains, turning away from the screen to make eye contact with Steve.

The words _ birth canal  _ makes Steve’s skin crawl, as much as he hates having the parasite inside him, the idea of having to get it out isn’t something he’s overly looking forward to. “What are the options then?”

Doctor Andrews seems pleased that he’s finally got on board with the conversation. “The only option is a caesarian section. An operation to extract the foetus.”

“Cut me open, take it out, stitch me back up again?” He very deliberately doesn’t look at Stark, even though he can feel him shifting uncomfortably beside him, and sense the nervous jitter of his leg that feels like it’s making the whole room bounce. “Sounds simple enough.”

For a moment Doctor Andrews looks just as uncomfortable as Stark feels besides him, her expression grim. “There are a few issues that might arise from this. I’ve looked at the other medical records you’ve brought over, and from what I can tell, the levels of anaesthetic and pain relief you need for them to be effective are well above the safe levels for a foetus.”

Stark goes suddenly still beside him, his leg no longer bouncing, and makes a pained, choked off sort of sound. “So you’re saying that the only way to get the baby out is to potentially harm it? Surely there has to be another way? Something else we can do, other drugs that could be used?”

Doctor Andrews shakes her head, features trying to be placating. “At this stage, no, there’s isn’t.”

Steve can feel his heart beating a little too hard, sweat starting to bead on the back of his neck, his top lip and forehead. Breathing in air that suddenly feels humid, he closes his eyes, trying to settle the panic in his chest. He can feel Stark’s panic radiating off of him too, can imagine the look of fear on his face even though he can’t bring himself to face him. Of course Stark is scared, he actually wants the parasite once it’s out of Steve; loves it, cares about it, wants it. The very least he can do is make sure that Stark’s child is in the best condition possible when he takes it home with him and out of Steve’s life.

“Forget about the drugs.” He hears himself say, the words tasting acrid on his tongue, coppery with fear and adrenaline. He feels all the focus in the room shift to him, but he doesn’t open his eyes, can’t bare to see the look that Stark must be giving him. “I haven’t gone through months of hell for something to hurt it right at the end.”

In the silence that follows, he can hear Stark’s breath hitching a little, can almost imagine the look he’s giving him, all wondrous and amazed, the look he’s been getting for weeks now whenever Stark seems to remember that Steve’s got his foetus growing inside him. It’s like somehow he’s doing something wonderful and amazing, and not just being a mobile feed bag for a parasite. Even when he tries to tell himself that it will all be worth it because Stark wants the parasite when it’s over, he’s not sure he really believes it.

When another moment passes and no one has said anything, Steve sets his jaw and opens his eyes, levelling Doctor Andrews with a look that he hopes conveys just how much he doesn’t want to argue about this. “I can promise you, it won’t be the worst I’ve gone through.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a flashback in this chapter. When this was originally going to be posted as a whole, the structure was to mirror mockingbird, and when we broke it up into chapters, I still thought that this chapter was not the best to start the story with, so the structure stayed. 
> 
> General warnings for Steve being unhappy and uncomfortable.

_ He feels exposed, like a turtle tipped on its back, lying back on the bed, cold air and gel assaulting his skin. He can feel the pressure of the instrument gliding over his stomach, feels his skin crawling and his insides twisting because someone is touching him when he really doesn’t want to be touched. He knows that the ultrasound technician isn’t actually touching him, and that she’s only doing her job. She’d been professional the whole time, not so much as a double take when Steve had been there when she walked into the room. He’s got to hand it to Stark, he knows how to find people who can be trusted to take their jobs seriously, no matter what gets thrown their way. _

_ He can feel Stark’s nervous energy radiating off of him from where he stands beside the bed, his hand tapping at the mattress next to Steve’s shoulder, fingers occasionally giving a fluttery brush against his shoulder or the side of his neck. He’s convinced that Stark doesn’t realise he’s doing it, and part of him wishes that his hand would just fall still. Wishes it would stop on his shoulder and stay there as a comforting weight. _

_ He doesn’t get that though, doesn’t know how to ask for it, and even if he did, he doubts Stark would hear him, he’s so focused on what the technician is saying and the screen that is displaying the images of the parasite. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was inside him, Steve thinks he might as well not being present. He wishes he wasn’t; he doesn’t want to hear what the technician is saying, or look at the screen, so he stares at the ceiling and tries to block out everything else, except the occasional brush of Stark’s fingers against his shoulder. _

_ It doesn’t work, not when he hears the technician call him by his title with the professional patience of someone who had spoken several times before. He grunts in response, still staring at the ceiling. _

_ “Did you want to hear the heartbeat, Captain?” she asks, voice carefully unassuming, like she doesn’t care either way, it’s just another step in her job. _

_ He can feel Stark nearly vibrating with excitement next to him, feel the anticipation radiating off of him, and he feels like a right bastard when he shakes his head. He hears the bitten off sound of disappointment that Stark tries to hold in, sees the worried expression that Stark is giving him in his peripheral vision. _

_ He grits his teeth, knowing that he should try and alleviate some of Stark’s fears, but he’s not sure he has the energy to be reassuring. “It spends half it’s time trying to put a hole in my diaphragm, Stark, I don’t need any more proof than that that it’s alive.” _

_ From the corner of his eye he sees Stark give a tight smile and nod his head stiffly, and it makes him feel worse, rather than better. Lifting his head up enough, tilting it in such a way that he doesn’t have a chance to see the screen, he looks at the technician, who doesn’t even bat an eye at the sour expression that Steve is sure is on his face. “If there’s a way for just him to hear it, go for it.” _

_ She nods, like it doesn’t faze her at all, and Steve supposes she’s seen all sort of people in here, from excited to scared to angry, so he probably isn’t the first or most difficult patient she’s had to deal with. Getting a set of headphones out of a drawer, she hands them over to Stark, plugging the lead into the machine. _

_ Dropping his head back onto the bed, Steve stares at the ceiling again, watching Stark settle the headphones onto his ears in his periphery. He sees the moment Stark must hear the heartbeat, the way his jaw goes slack and his eyes go misty, can’t miss the blatant delight in his features, that he knows he shouldn’t begrudge Stark at all, but he still hates it. _

_ “Oh, darling.” Stark whispers, his hand finally falling still against Steve’s shoulder, fingers squeezing tight. He squeezes his eyes shut because he can’t stand the look on Stark’s face. He doesn’t need a reminder of how much Stark wants this. _

_ After a few minutes he sees Stark hand the headphones back, thanking the technician, though his hand never moves off of his shoulder. _

_ “Did you want to know the gender?” The technician asks as she tucks the headphones back in the drawer, one hand still holding the wand steady against Steve’s stomach. _

_ “No.” Steve bites out, before Stark has a chance to answer differently. As much as he’s appreciated the professionalism, he really wishes the technician and Stark would stop acting like this is all normal. He doesn’t need them trying to convince him that it’s anything more than a parasite. _

_ When it’s all over, the technician and Stark both step out of the room to give Steve the privacy to clean up and get his clothes back in place again. He resists the urge to break the equipment in the room, because it’s not really to blame for everything that had transpired. _

_ He’s finished setting his clothes to rights and is awkwardly getting his shoes back on, when he hears Stark and the technician talking outside. He’s pretty sure they don’t intend for him to hear, since they are whispering, but the door is open and he thinks maybe Stark has forgotten how good Steve’s hearing really is. _

_ “About the baby’s gender?” Stark asks, voice quiet, but the curiosity still evident. _

_ “You’d like to know, even if the Captain doesn’t?” The technician replies, just as quiet. There’s a pause, where Steve guesses that Tony must nod, because the technician speaks again. “It’s a boy.” _

_ Stark sucks in a deep breath. “I’m going to have a son.” _

_ Steve feels like he’s been punched in the chest, the air knocked clean out of his lungs. He knows it isn’t the parasite, it’s having one of its few still moments. Stark’s son. _

_ Not his. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That time of the week again.
> 
> You might have noticed the chapter count has changed. That's because the ever so lovely [KittKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittKat) went back through this story and suggested a new chapter structure so that we now have chapters that are a little more even in size. So you can thank her for the fact that you are getting more than 200 words this week. Because that's all I was going to give you, much to Sap's disgust. 
> 
> Don't get me wrong, we both love even sized chapters, but when we wrote this story, I wasn't writing with chapters in mind, so I did scene breaks, rather than chapter breaks, and they varied in size a lot.

Since Project Rebirth, Steve has been able to get by on little sleep; a few hours a week and he is okay. The longer the weeks drag into the new year, the more he starts to think he’s in a whole new kind of hell. Even when he goes to bed, all he can do is lie there staring at the walls, all too aware of the parasite moving inside him, too conscious of all the changes to his body.

It only gets worse after the second appointment with Doctor Andrews, at thirty weeks, when she recommends bed rest and minimal activity until the date booked for the operation in mid-March. He wants to snap at her and ask just what she thought he’d been doing for months. Ever since he’s been on medical leave, he feels like he’s done nothing at all, except rattle around his empty apartment.

Until Christmas, that was, when Stark had arrived at his door and barely left since. It had become normal for Stark to be there, to be bringing over food and movies and sitting with Steve on his couch for hours on end.

He’s not sure how much less he can do than he’s already doing.

 

Bed rest is another kind of torture entirely. He had felt useless enough since the first weeks of throwing up every morning, more so when SHIELD had forced him onto medical leave. Now he can’t sleep, can’t do much to fill his time except lie in his bed and hope to sleep, or sit on the couch and pretend to watch the television. Nothing has changed, except Stark is there for longer each day. Some days he’s already there when Steve finally gives up pretending he can sleep and shuffles out of his bedroom into the living room. Some days it’s nearly lunchtime before he gets there, flustered and apologetic, dragging his coat off at the door and heading straight to the kitchen to unload the food he picked up on the way.

Those days, when Stark apologises for being late he has paint clinging to the edges of his fingernails and his hair, and flecked on his shirt. It’s mostly greys, two distinct tones that Steve can pick out, light and dark. One day when he gets there, there’s a streak of pale yellow paint on his left cheek.

He doesn’t have to ask to guess what it is that Tony’s painting. He doubts it’s a new armour.

He shouldn’t hate it so much, that Tony is preparing and actively looking forward to the day they cut the parasite out of Steve and hand it over to him. The day that Tony gets to take his son home and out of Steve’s life.

The thought of it makes his lungs constrict and bile burn up his throat, but it’s no different from how he feels every few minutes anyway.

Doctor Andrews had explained he’d only get more uncomfortable and shorter of breath the closer he got to the day of the operation. The parasite is growing too big, sitting too high because of the shape of his hips, pushing on his diaphragm and stomach. It just adds to his general overall misery.

Feeling like that when he thinks about what’ll happen in the wake of having the parasite cut out of him, doesn’t mean anything.

 

It lasts almost two weeks before bed rest drives him to destruction. It was fine just sulking around his apartment until he was told he had to do it. By the time Stark gets there at midday, he’s broken three mugs trying to make coffee before he remembers that he shouldn’t drink too much of it. One of the kitchen chairs is in three pieces, a cupboard door hanging off one hinge, and there’s a dent in his refrigerator that wasn’t there before.

He’s standing in the kitchen, bent over, elbows resting on the benchtop, face buried against his forearms when he hears the door open. He doesn’t move, in part because his lower back hurts and this is finally a position that makes it ache a little less, but mostly because the extra weight and shape of his stomach feels like it is dragging him down and the only way to stop himself collapsing is to keep his knees and shoulders locked where they are.

“Hello, Steve. Sorry I’m late.” Stark calls out like he does every day he’s not already there before nine o’clock.

He hears the moment when Stark must spot him, the sharp intake of breath as he no doubt surveys the damage, but he still can’t bring himself to do more than grunt in response.

“Oh, darling.” He hears Stark whisper as he crosses the kitchen, the clatter and rustle of him setting down bags on the table before his presence shifts into Steve’s personal space.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Stark asks him, having long given up asking if he’s okay, a hand settling gently on his lower back, rubbing the exact spot that aches like he somehow knows exactly what the problem is.

“I’m starting to hate this place.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter! Thanks everyone who has been reading and commenting along this journey. We've really loved all of the comments. 
> 
> It's Sap's turn to reply to comments this week, so be sure to say lots of nice things.

“I’m starting to hate this place.” He grumbles, the comfort from the pain making him momentarily stupid enough to admit the truth. He hums out a groan when Stark increases the pressure of his hand just slightly, fingertips digging into all the aching points beneath his skin.

“I can see that.” Amusement tinges his voice when Stark replies, no doubt taking in the damage that Steve’s wrought on the kitchen. “You want to go sit down? I’ll make something to eat.”

“I’ve had just about enough of sitting around being useless.” He admits, bracing his hands against the bench top and pushing himself back up to glare at Stark.

He gets a soft smile in response, the type that makes him want to knock it right off Stark’s face for the way it makes his heart feel weak in his chest.

“Do you, perhaps, want to come and stay with me?” Tony asks, turning back to the table to start unpacking food out of bags. “I can’t be here all the time, I’m sorry, and solitary confinement is obviously wearing you down. If you’re at my place then neither Jarvis or I will ever be all that far away. The change of scenery might do you good darling.”

It’s almost blasé the way Stark says it, but Steve can hear the undercurrent of the words he doesn’t say.  _ I’m a busy man. It isn’t convenient for me to keep coming around here and wasting time. _ It makes him feel angry, but mostly with himself. Of course Stark has better things to do than watch over him every day. He’s not even sure why he’s there every day anyway, there’s still weeks to go before he can take the parasite home with him.

“You don’t have to keep coming here if it’s inconvenient to you, Stark.” He spits out, feeling bitter. His back still aches, and he feels like there is a foot jammed up under his ribs, he can’t breathe properly, oxygen deprivation making his dizzy.

Stark turns suddenly, is back in his space in two quick steps, one hand catching his shoulder to support him, the other settling warmly on the side of his neck, thumb tucked against his jaw to stop him from trying to look away. His eyes flash, serious, determined, that ever present concern leaving little creases at the corners on his eyes. “I promised I was going to look after you, Steve. Both of you. Let me do that, please.”

He wants to lean into the touch, lean even closer. Part of him wants Stark to hold him like he had the night that started all of this, safely caged between his arms. Part of him wants to pull away and tell Stark to fuck off and stop torturing him. Neither wins, and he ends up falling into the depressed chasm in the middle. “You don’t have to if you have other things you need to do.”

Stark gives him a soft smile, almost sad looking, thumb stroking along his jaw. “I want to, darling. I’m sorry I haven’t been doing the best job of it these last weeks. If you come stay with me, I promise I’ll do so much better.”

It’s the idea of a change of scenery that makes him agree, he tells himself firmly. Not the idea of Stark taking better care of him.

 

It should be harder to settle into Stark’s place, it’s huge in comparison to Steve’s little apartment, but after having spent the better part of several months staring at his own walls, he’s quite relieved to stare at different architecture for a change. There are some things that take some getting used to, the mattress is too soft, for one thing. The smell of fresh paint permeates most of the house, making Steve’s head spin whenever he ventures out of the room Stark set him up in to make short walks to the kitchen or the living room when he starts to feel too shut in or bored.

Getting bored is almost a challenge, Stark put that much stuff in his room to keep him entertained, and he has read a few of the books on the nights he can’t sleep, the television playing quietly in the background. True to his word, Stark is there a lot more, when he isn’t doing work related activities, or tinkering in his workshop, or painting. He brings Steve food several times a day, and sits with him in the living room while Steve watches mindless soaps.

When Stark isn’t there his butler is, face pinched in such a way that Steve can never tell what he’s thinking, and that unsettles him to no end. He tries not to let it bother him, but every time he sees Jarvis he feels like he’s been measured and found lacking. Not that that is overly different from their few brief interactions that had taken place before the parasite had started growing inside Steve, so he doesn’t think that is to blame.

A few days go by before he starts to feel hemmed in again. He takes to wandering at night when he thinks no one is awake to stop him, because his back hurts too much to sleep and whenever he lies down the parasite starts wiggling and moving and jamming limbs where he wishes it wouldn’t. The second night he takes to wandering the town house, he stumbles upon Stark in the living room, tucked into one of the plush armchairs, a book open in his lap and a notepad resting on the armrest, pen caught between his teeth. It’s so different from how Steve usually sees him, surrounded by technology and gadgets that he pauses a moment too long, unable to slip back out of the door before Stark lifts his head and sees him.

A soft smile spreads across Stark’s face, eyes crinkling in a way that makes him look genuinely happy. “Can’t sleep, darling?”

The question, as well as the staging, makes Steve wonder if Stark deliberately situated himself there, knowing that he was likely to be wandering the house again. It should bother him, but he doesn’t have the energy for that, and if he lets himself be honest, he could do with some company that didn’t insist on kicking in his lungs.

“Rarely do.” He grunts in response, hesitating for only another few moments before venturing into the room and easing himself down onto one of the couches. Everything is becoming more effort as the weeks go on, attempts to sit down and stand up make him feel like he really is nearly a hundred years old. He feels Stark watching him, but is too tired to really care what he thinks right now, though he doubts that there is anything at all appealing about the sight. Even once he’s sitting he can’t get comfortable, his back still aches, his lungs feel too restricted and he constantly feels like he’s overheating, despite the weather still being cold.

“Is that normal? Or only since—” Stark trails off, but it’s obvious what he’s referring to.

“Normal,” he grumbles in reply, shifting on the couch again, trying to find a way to sit that is the most comfortable option in a world of discomfort. “Worse now though, than before.”

Stark hums, closing the book in his lap and setting it aside on top of the notepad. “Thought you looked more tired than usual.”

He means to call Stark a hypocrite, but when he glances over at him he catches sight of the book spine and realises what he’d been doing before Steve came into the room. It’s a baby name book, something that looks old and more worn than he would have expected. He didn’t even expect Stark to use a book to pick out names. To be honest, he doesn’t even want to think about the thing having a name other than parasite or foetus. It makes it too real. Too human.

It is, though, to Stark. To Stark, the thing growing inside Steve is his son, and he wants him very much.

All Steve has to do is keep it alive another month and a bit and then he can have it cut out of him and handed over to Stark, and they can both be happy about that arrangement. He’ll finally be rid of the thing, and Stark will have the lifelong commitment of a family that Steve had never known he desired.

It makes sense though, that Tony wants a family. It used to be something that Steve wanted too, back before the war. He’d wanted a family with Gail, but instead she had a family with Buck and he’d been left forgotten in the ocean for years.

He didn’t want a family like this though. Even if he did all he has to do is look at how excited Stark is about becoming a father, painting a nursery and picking out names, to know he has no place in this family.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Because apparently it is Tuesday already. You're lucky Sap reminded me, things have been so busy I have lost all track of what day it even is. 
> 
> This is a direct continuation of the last chapter. Please enjoy.

Stark’s face creases with worry and Steve wonders what his own expression must look like to get that sort of a response.

“Is something the matter?” He asks, leaning forward in his chair, concern deepening. “Other than the obvious, I mean.”

At least Stark realises how much he hates this, he thinks, shifting again on the couch. “Back hurts.”

Shifting in his chair, sliding closer to the edge of the seat, Stark leans forward onto his knees. “Did you want me to...”

The question trails off incomplete, he shoots a questioning look in Stark’s direction to see what the problem is, noticing him hesitate on the edge of the seat, and thinks maybe he looks too hostile. He tries to school his face back into something less annoyed, despite the ache in his back, and it’s possible he succeeds because Stark shifts himself from the armchair to the couch in one fluid, graceful movement that he can’t help but be envious of. He misses the days when he could move without having to plan out exactly how he’s going to achieve things as simple as sitting down or standing up.

Settling onto the couch next to him, Stark reaches out slowly, telegraphing his movements and giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t want to though, as much as he hates to admit it. He stamps down on the instinct to pull away from him and leans forward slightly, as much as his swollen stomach will let him, sliding forward to the edge of the couch so he can lean over and rest his elbows on his knees. There’s a moment where stillness hangs in the air before Stark’s hand settles against his lower back, at first just rubbing soothing circles over the top of his shirt.

He can feel the tension easing out of his shoulders as he lets himself relax into the touch more, allows himself to appreciate it when Stark’s hand disappears and comes back, sliding under his clothes, skin against skin. His hand is warm, fingers calloused as they stroke against his spine, digging into the tight muscles either side. He has to bite back the groan burning in the back of his throat at how good it feels. He feels his eyes sting, buries his face in his hand, feeling foolish because this isn’t something to get all emotional about.

He’s not sure if Stark doesn’t notice, or if he does and wisely chooses to ignore it, though he suspects the latter. He appreciates it all the same, when Stark doesn’t mention the parasite, or the fact he’s been picking names out for it. When he doesn’t mention Steve’s obvious discomfort or misery, and instead starts rambling about things he’d seen on the news earlier. It leads into talk of the Ultimates and gossip from SHIELD, which only makes Steve start burning up with anger at his own uselessness. He’s a soldier, he doesn’t know how to be anything else, and this medical leave is killing him.

Stark does notice that, because suddenly his stream of dialogue shifts to the soap they’d watched earlier that day, which he’d been convinced that Stark wasn’t paying attention to at all, seeming to be wrapped up in the computer he’d had sitting on his lap. He picks apart the plot and themes that Steve was sure Stark hadn’t noticed, and is half convinced aren’t there anyway. It’s one of the reasons he likes them, because they’re both overly dramatic and mind numbingly boring and the closest thing there is these days to the old radio dramas or the talkies at the cinema. He mutters his agreement or grunts in derision when Stark says something he doesn’t like, because he can’t find the energy or the extra breath to bother speaking more than a few words at a time.

He just listens, letting the words and inflection in Stark’s voice wash over him as his hand keeps kneading and rubbing at his lower back. He loses track of time, starts drifting, not meaning to, but he feels fuzzy and tired, like he could actually fall asleep for once, when he realises Stark’s hand has fallen still, just a heavy, warm presence against his skin, comforting and solid, and he’s stopped responding beyond the occasional hum to the conversation.

“You should try and sleep, darling.” Stark mutters, voice still low and comforting.

He thinks he might nod, must, because he feels Stark slide his hand out from beneath his clothes and move off the couch. He’s just contemplating how he’s going to find the energy to stand up again when he feels hands on his shoulders, guiding him to lean back, then fingers tugging his shoes off and setting them aside.

“I know from experience that this couch is exceptionally comfortable, darling, just need to get you set up better.” He hears Stark say as hands touch his calves, moving him, lifting and guiding until he manages to shift and wriggle until he’s lying down. Stark’s right, he thinks, settling into the couch, lifting his head to let a pillow be slid into place, the couch is comfortable. Long enough for him to stretch out on, not nearly as soft as the bed in the room Stark put him in, and the shape of it lets him rest on his side with the cushions at his back to take some of the pressure off.

He feels a blanket settle over him, tucked in around his feet and against his back, and he lets himself keep drifting, indulges in the feeling of being safe and cared for that he is only allowing because his mind is too hazy to protest. Fingers stroke through his hair, brushing against his temple, small touches that make him ache and want for them to never stop. Not that he’d ever ask for them, just take them whenever Stark saw fit to hand them out.

“Good night, darling. Sweet dreams.” Stark whispers, voice too soft, too affectionate.

It breaks through his sleep thinned guard, makes him mumble out a response that he doesn’t think about. “Thank you, Tony.”

The fingers against his temple go still, concerning enough that he cracks one eye open to see Stark looking down at him, smiling widely, so pleased and affectionate that it makes him realise what it is that he said.

He can’t find the energy to really care, not when Stark looks so happy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tuesday another chapter. At least, I am assured it is still Tuesday in some parts of the world. 
> 
> Doing this update from my phone, so hopefully the formatting isn’t screwed up. Will have to fix later if it is.

Once he starts calling Tony by his first name, he knows he’s in trouble. It isn’t something he can reverse either, the few times he tries to call him Stark out loud, Tony gives him a playfully hurt look and even though it’s a mock expression, he can’t bring himself to be the cause of it more than a few times. The first dozen or so times he does call him Tony, he gets beatific smiles in response that make his heart feel a little unsteady in his chest and he knows he’s doomed.

It had been easier to pretend there weren’t feelings there when he’d been stuck inside his own apartment, shut off from most contact and only seeing Tony for part of the day.

They settle into a routine of sorts; he spends more of his waking hours in the living room, the television on in the background as he reads. Tony flits in and out of the room, sometimes smelling like paint, sometimes smelling like alcohol later in the evenings. Every evening is the same though, they sit together for a while watching the news or a movie that Tony put on, sometimes just reading in companionable silence. But without fail it ends with him either hunched over on the couch or lying down and Tony’s hand against his back, manipulating the pain away. When he’s as comfortable as he can be and relaxed enough, he lets Tony settle a hand on his stomach and drifts off to sleep listening to Tony speaking to the parasite in Italian.

For days in a row he sleeps a solid few hours before waking up, something he hasn’t managed since before the war. Then after another week of mediocrity rolls around, Steve finds he’s back to not sleeping at all. The couch and back rubs stop being the answer, instead he finds himself restless, feeling jittery and drawn too thin. Tony notices, frowns at the dark smudges that appear under his eyes after a week without any sleep at all. He fusses over him, smoothing a hand through his hair, digging his fingers into the tight places in his shoulders and back, insisting that he should rest, actively trying to guide him back to the couch or his bed whenever he finds him wandering. He takes all the small notions of comfort, because he is selfish, finds himself wanting more, but not knowing exactly what equates to more.

Whenever he wanders, no matter what time of the night it is, Tony seems to appear out of nowhere to wander with him, steps shortened to carefully match his own ungainly stride. It bothers him how much more he seems to waddle the later the weeks get. The parasite sits like a hard weight on the top of his pelvis with not enough room for it to shift down any further, making everything from walking to breathing a difficult process, but inactivity drives him mad.

He dreads the thought of having nearly a month more of it to go. It’s a struggle to imagine anything worse than he currently feels, but he has no doubt that it’ll happen.

 

By the middle of February, Steve’s well and truly ready for the parasite to get cut out of him. He feels like he hasn’t slept in weeks, he has to urinate nearly constantly, and the pain in his back is only intensifying. He’s sick of the inside of Tony’s house nearly as much as he was sick of his own apartment. Whenever Tony tries to engage him in conversation he’s short tempered and grouchy in response, which he knows isn’t fair, but he can’t quite keep his misery to himself anymore. The only more positive points are that, despite Steve being a real arsehole to him, Tony stays with him nearly constantly. He doesn’t leave him alone to his misery, he doesn’t cease the back rubs or rambling one sided conversations that always seem to eventually sooth Steve back into some illusion of comfort.

He’s not sure if he hates Tony for his persistence and lack of self regard, since he seems content to subject himself to Steve’s grouchiness with little complaint, or if the emotions he feels are at the other end of the spectrum.

It’s early in the morning, but they’re already situated on the couch in the living room, Steve lying on his side propped up with pillows, legs draped over Tony’s lap. There’s one warm hand curled around his right kneecap and the other tucked up under his sweater to rub at his lower back. Despite the pain, it feels nice. His knees have been aching since Christmas, though that has recently paled in comparison to the pain in his back. The parasite had been wriggling and kicking most of the morning, but had fallen still again about ten minutes prior. It’s long enough that he feels like he could almost fall asleep for a little while when there’s a sharp cramping feeling that radiates from the pain in his lower back out to his stomach. It makes his breath catch slightly, feeling the need to tuck his legs up higher, but it fades again after a few slow, deep breaths.

Tony’s hand on his back falls still. “Something the matter, darling?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update from my phone, but hopefully the formatting holds on alright. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone so far for all their support and great comments. 
> 
> This chapter is where we start to get into things a bit more medical. Now keep in mind that neither Sap or I have ever been in this situation, and while I did spend a great deal of time researching, there is still bound to be inaccuracies and mistakes. Hopefully nothing that distracts from the story too much.

“Something the matter, darling?”

Once the feeling fades it’s hard to decide if there was something distinctly wrong with it or not. He shrugs, barely moving his right shoulder, staring blankly at the television. “Don’t think so.”

The feeling comes again about a half hour later, a sharp cramping tug that feels like it’s trying to pull his navel back into his spine, taking the scenic route past his diaphragm. It makes him shift again, huffing out a deep breath, and he feels Tony’s attention shift from working his fingers into the tight point above his right knee.

“Steve, darling?” Tony asks, starting to sound genuinely worried, hand shifting away from Steve’s knee to rub up and down the length of his thigh. “You feeling okay?”

“Think I need to get up for a bit.” He grumbles, already dreading the process of standing up, but he’s feeling restless again.

Nodding, Tony slides out from under his legs, offering him a hand to sit up properly, then a supportive hand on his lower back while he stands up. Standing makes things feel a little better, though the parasite gives an unhappy sort of squirm, like it isn’t at all comfortable. Tony’s hand stays on his lower back as he makes a slow circuit of the room, feeling like if he moves just the right amount everything will settle again and go back to the normal feeling of uncomfortable hell that he’s been in for over a month, not this new foreign feeling of wrongness. After the first lap of the room, he shrugs Tony’s hand off, feeling hemmed in and a little too warm to indulge in the contact any longer.

Leaving Tony standing in the middle of the room, he heads for the hallway, feeling itchy beneath his skin as the cramping feeling comes again, more intense than before. Something about it doesn’t feel right, but then he hasn’t felt right since the mornings he was throwing up in the toilet, so it’s hard to determine what is normal and what isn’t in this situation.

The feeling comes a few more times, each time the delay between them getting shorter. He’s vaguely aware of Tony trailing along behind him, can almost feel the concern radiating out of him. He hears him talking at one point, but when he looks over his shoulder, Tony has his phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, tablet in hand, talking to someone on the other end of the line.

There’s an off look on Tony’s face, something that he can’t quite figure out, he looks slightly pale, lips pressed into a thin line whenever he isn’t talking. It gives him the urge to try and comfort him, to turn around and reach out and smooth the slight frown off his face, but they are abstract thoughts, distanced by another cramping feeling.

Tony suddenly drops his phone off his shoulder, catching it deftly in one hand. “Just talking to Doctor Andrews, she wants you in at the hospital right now, darling, there’s a chance you might be going into labour.”

He can only stare at Tony for a few seconds, trying to process the words. He feels sick, once the meaning of it sinks in, feels the spike of adrenaline that usually comes with panic. “Don’t be stupid, it’s got another month yet.”

Tony clenches his jaw, giving Steve what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “Preterm labour isn’t unheard of, darling, so we need to go.”

Something about it still doesn’t seem right, the concept too far removed that he’s not sure he can grasp it. “I can’t go into labour, the doctors said it has nowhere to go.”

“That’s the problem, darling.” Tony’s jaw tenses again and Steve realises what the expression on his face is. He’s scared.

 

The drive to the hospital is a whirlwind that Steve can’t focus on. Everything whirls around him in a flurry of motion and panic, Tony and Jarvis both throwing things in the car, putting together a bag of his clothes and all those things he had been refusing to think about. He sits in the passenger seat of the car, trying to breath through every sharp tugging cramp in his stomach, coming more regularly than before, through every unhappy wriggle and kick the parasite gives in the lull between cramps. He tries not to think about it, but without anything to distract him, all he can imagine is either his body slowly squashing the parasite, or it ripping him open on the inside.

Then they arrive at the hospital, it’s another whirlwind, it feels like he’s clinging to the side of a rocket all over again, just waiting for the moment that it explodes and he crashes into the ocean. Doctor Andrews is there to meet them, along with a gaggle of nurses, faces that are vaguely familiar from the dossier of potential medical staff that Tony had put together.

Set up in a private hospital room, he knows he should be paying attention to what’s going on around him, but getting hooked up to a drip is secondary to his concern for Tony. He watches Tony, hovering nervously at the back of the room, whenever he can see past the nurse strapping two band around his stomach he can see Tony’s hands trembling, shaking hard enough they tap against his legs.

“You okay?” He asks, trying to catch Tony’s eye.

An incredulous look crosses Tony’s face and then he barks out an nervous, sardonic laugh. “Am I okay? Really darling, I’m just peachy. I’m not the one going into labour.”

_ No, _ he thinks,  _ but you’re the one emotionally invested in this. _ “C’mon Stark, get your head in the game. Can’t do this if you freak out on me now.”

He feels like he’s talking to a soldier, trying to calm him down on the battlefield. Panic never served anyone well in a fight, and he didn’t think it’d serve well here either.

Tony gives him a stiff nod, pulling his arms in to his chest, gripping one elbow tight and pressing his other hand over his mouth. His shoulders rise and fall as he sucks in a deep breath and lets it out again. His hand shifts down, fingers curling so he’s knocking his knuckles against his chin as he presses a too brittle grin onto his face. “Who’s freaking out, darling? Not me. You’re in safe hands and everything is going to be fine.”

He doesn’t say that nothing has been fine for the last eight months, because he know that it won’t do Tony any good to hear it. He does catch the concerned look that flits across Doctor Andrews’ face as she passes between him and Tony.

“Captain Rogers,” She stops at his right side, away from where the nurse is hooking wires from the belt around his waist to a machine. “This is a cardiotocogram, it will do a reading of the foetal heart rate as well as the uterine contractions. What it is going to do will tell us how advanced the labour is and if the foetus is experience any stress. From there we can determine whether we can attempt to delay the labour or not. You will be able to hear the foetal heart rate.”

As she speaks the nurse finishes hooking the wires up and switches the monitor on. It starts producing a reading straight away. A rapid pulsing sound fills the room, echoing inside Steve’s head until he can nearly feel it in his teeth. On the other side of the room Tony bites at his knuckle, teeth digging indents into his skin. He feels concern starting to crawl up his chest and wrap around his lungs when he works out what it is that he’s hearing, coupled with the barely masked panic on Tony’s face.

“That’s the heartbeat? Little fast, isn’t it?” He turns his attention back to Doctor Andrews, but doesn’t miss the baffled look one of the nurses gives him, as though there is an obvious answer that he should have known.

Doctor Andrews keeps looking at the machine’s monitor, frowning slightly. “Not overly so, foetal heart rate is higher than a resting adult heart rate, but this is higher than I’d like it to be.”

“Meaning?” He’s not sure he wants the answer, he feels on edge, rattled with every pulse of the heart beat, every tensing, tugging cramp that tries to knock the breath right out of his lungs. Every twitch and flinch that Tony gives, every shade paler he goes, every ounce of worry and fear that show clearly on his face. He hadn’t thought it would be like this. He hadn’t thought about it at all. Had believed that it wouldn’t get any worse than it had been all along. Denial was a useless pastime, he knows that, but it’s never stopped him from engaging in it. “Is it going to be okay?”

“We can keep monitoring, administer tocolytics to try and halt your labour for 24 to 48 hours, provided they work with you, but given how close the contractions are, Captain Rogers, I think the best course of action is an emergency cesarean.”

He watches Tony go impossibly pale, as his whole body start shaking. Still looking at Tony, he hesitantly asks, “Is it going to survive this early?”

Tony’s teeth dig even harder into his knuckle and he feels terrible for causing him further distress, but he has to know. He hasn’t gone through months of hell, choosing to keep the parasite alive, just for it to die now.

Doctor Andrews looks between him and Tony, before levelling her focus on him, professional, no nonsense, no false promises or coddling in her expression. “Thirty six weeks is preterm, but survival rate is comparable with full term babies.”

He nods, cringing his way through another cramp. “Then get it out.”

_ Before I kill it _ , he doesn’t add, because he doesn’t want to see how much those words will hurt Tony.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed, next chapter is going to involve a c-section. If anyone has any questions/would like more warning about what that chapter will involve, please feel free to contact either Sap or I on tumblr (will add links later when I’ve got access to my laptop again.) and we will attempt to answer those queries in the least spoiler-ish way possible.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains semi-graphic depictions of surgery, and a lot of emotional overload on Steve's part. We do promise that everything will eventually turn out okay. 
> 
> Further warning in end notes if you wish to read those before deciding to read the chapter.

The room smells like antiseptic, so strong and pungent that he feels it burning at his sinuses and lungs whenever he breathes. He can hear the surgeon and the theatre nurses moving around, though he can barely see them from his position on the operating table. If he tips his head back far enough he can see the doors leading into the operating theatre, and despite the strain on his neck he keeps staring at it.

The drugs they gave him are starting to take effect, but the maximum safe dose they could administer have only managed to make him feel like his body from the waist down is fuzzy and a little distant. Pins and needles, as though they’d cut off blood supply, and not tried to anaesthetise him.  

One of the nurses moves up along the bed so he can see them properly, nearly indistinguishable beneath the scrubs and face mask. “Captain Rogers, how are you feeling?”

“Impatient.” He grumbles, because it’s easier than admitting that he’s starting to get nervous. He doesn’t want to say scared, he doesn’t want to give into that fear, but everything is starting to grate on him, wear him down.

The nurse’s eyes crinkle in the corners and he thinks they’re laughing at him. “Most people aren’t usually so keen to get cut open while they can still feel it.”

He tilts his head back to look at the door again, trying and failing to swallow down the frustrated groan. “Sooner it’s over with the better.”

The nurse shifts beside him, reaching to pick something up and bringing it over to him. “Doctor Molloy is almost ready to proceed. Just going to put an oxygen mask on you, Captain. And don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be here any second.”

He lets the oxygen mask get fit over his nose and mouth; it makes him feel even more pinned down than the restraints tying his arms, legs and torso down to the table to. He’s about to deny that he’s waiting for Tony to arrive when the door swings open and two people with scrubs on come into the theatre. As indistinguishable as all the others are beneath the hospital garb, Steve can pick Tony out easily, all too pale skin and wide eyes.

The nurse who came in with him leads Tony over to the chair near Steve’s head, his eyes going comically wider when he takes in the sight.

“Oh, darling, what have they done to you?” Tony breathes, his face mask puffing out. “Why are you tied down?”

He lets out a frustrated puff of air, fogging up the inside of the oxygen mask. “I told ‘em to. Don’t think any of them want me to kick them in the head.”

Tony’s eyes crinkle in the corners and he huffs out a nervous chuckle. “Was going to be here to hold your hand, darling, but I can’t do that when they are tied down.”

“Only break it anyway.” He grumbles, but he can feel the relief swelling in his chest, because Tony’s there and he doesn’t have to do this alone.

The squint to Tony’s eyes turns a little sad. He reaches out hesitantly setting his hand on Steve’s shoulder, fingers tracing delicately over bare skin. “That may well be, so what would you like me to do instead, darling?”

_ Stay, _ he thinks,  _ don’t leave me. _ He isn’t sure if he means right now, or if he means once this is all over. Once Tony has his son and doesn’t need him anymore. Pressing his eyes closed he tilts his head towards Tony. “Distract me.”

He hears the chair scrape against the floor, feels the warmth of Tony moving closer, the slide of his hand across his skin as it moves from his shoulder along the line of his collarbones until his forearm rests as a warm weight across the top of his chest. He can feel the warmth of Tony’s breath against his scalp and forehead, smell coffee and spearmint and surprisingly not alcohol. When he opens his eyes, Tony is right there, sitting at the top of the operation table, leaning forward so his face is almost all he can see. His other hand comes up to stroke at his cheek.

“I’ve got you, darling.” Tony whispers, tilting his head down to bump his face mask against Steve’s forehead. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“We’re ready to proceed, Captain.” Doctor Molloy states from outside his field of vision.

“Get on with it, then.” He bites back, nerves making him snap a little. He tries to concentrate of Tony’s hands against his skin, the heavy weight of his arm holding his shoulders down.

The first slice of the scalpel comes as more of a tugging sensation, pulling at his skin that he only feels as an abstract sensation, before the sting hits a moment later. It makes him grind his teeth together to avoid biting his tongue, trying to stop himself from flinching or tensing up. It gets worse, the sting intensifies to a raw ache, throbbing and burning at his abdomen even as he starts to feel cold all over. He can feel his hands shaking, stinging in his eyes as his vision blurs.

“Hey, hey, darling, you’re doing great.” Tony murmurs, sounding miles away, even as he can feel the vibrations of his words against his skin. “You’re so brave. So brave, so strong. I can’t believe how brave you are, darling.”

It feels like he’s slowly being torn in half. From the chest down no longer feels vaguely distant but as though it’s being dragged away from the rest of him inch by painful tearing inch. His breath hiccups in his throat, feels like he’s going to choke on nothing. He can feel hands inside him, pushing, pulling, tugging, like they’re trying to drag half his intestines out, while pushing the rest of them up into his chest cavity.

“So brave, darling.” Tony repeats, his voice a steady ledge that Steve feels like he’s hanging off of, in danger of plummeting into an abyss.

He’s being blown apart by a bomb and thrown into the ocean all over again.

“Oh darling, I should never have done this to you, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re doing so well. They’re nearly done. We’re going to have a baby, darling, a little perfect baby. I can’t thank you enough.”

He wants to protest, to correct Tony, because it’s not his baby, it’s Tony’s. Tony’s baby who he’ll take home and love and leave Steve behind, torn into pieces in a hospital operating theatre. He feels his mouth work, words grating across his tongue, but he can’t hear what he’s said over the pounding, panicked beat of his heart, adrenaline spiking.

Tony’s hand cups his face, his lips pressing against his forehead through the mask. “I’m not going to leave you, darling. Not as long as you’ll have me around, I’m not going anywhere. I promise, darling, I’m not going to leave you.”

The pain increases. It feels like they grab his spine and try to pull it out through the hole in his abdomen. Then it suddenly stops. The pulling and tugging stop and all that’s left is the ache and cold burn of an open wound. Relief makes his head spin. Or it could be blood loss, he isn’t sure.

Then it’s just silence. Startling, empty silence. Tony’s stopped talking. He can’t hear the surgeon or the nurse talking in the background anymore. Just a blank void.

“What’s happening?” He slurs out, tongue stinging and tasting like copper. He blinks to clear his vision, can see Tony sitting up straighter, focus elsewhere, but he can’t see what he’s looking at. “Where is it? What’s wrong?”

Tony’s hands start to shake against his skin. “It’s the baby. There’s something wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's c-section takes place in this chapter. While not over explicit, there are a lot of references to pain and sensation, as while Steve can't see what is happening, he can feel it. 
> 
> There's quite a cliffhanger at the end of this chapter. If it has you worried at all, please feel free to contact either of us via tumblr.  
> [Red's tumblr](http://s-hylor.tumblr.com/)  
> [Sap's tumblr](http://sirsapling.tumblr.com//)
> 
> Also, this week I (Red) will be answering comments, because Sap isn't feeling great. Or rather, because I asked him if I could, and because he's unwell he agreed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, another chapter, on the downhill run now, only two more to go after this. Which means, that for all the Christmas celebrating people, you will get the last chapter as a Christmas present. 
> 
> Just a heads up, there is a fair bit going on emotionally in this chapter, and none of it happy. This is chapter is where Steve gets to say goodbye to perinatal depression and hello to postpartum depression. Fun times.

“It’s the baby. There’s something wrong.”

Panic and cold dread hit him like a blow to the chest. All that pain, the hell he’d gone through and all for nothing. He killed it. His hate and neglect had killed it. He can see the anguish in Tony’s face, and he hates himself for putting it there. Tony had wanted the baby, and he hadn’t even been able to give him that in the end.

He can hear voices again, hear the nurses talking. Feels hands back inside him, tugging and pulling him back together again. He wishes they wouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve that.

Tony’s pulling away from him, in slow increments, his attention and focus elsewhere. He wants to remind him he said he wouldn’t leave him, but he doesn’t blame Tony for wanting nothing to do with him.

He killed Tony’s baby. He didn’t deserve to ever be forgiven for that.

“I’m sorry.” Hollow empty words that don’t change what he did.

There’s another noise, something he doesn’t recognise, a thin, thready high pitched whine that increases in intensity into a wail.

Tony’s expression changes, relief flooding his features, the arm across Steve’s chest pressing down, fingers digging into his shoulder, trembling rather than shaking. “He’s okay, Steve. He’s okay.”

It takes a second for him to realise that Tony’s talking about his baby, that the sound he hears is a cry. Relief swells in his throat, tries to choke him. He didn’t kill it.

The nurse from before crosses over to the bed and he can see the relief in their eyes too. “Captain Rogers, Mr Stark, your son is going to have to go to the NICU. Mr Stark, if you want to head over there, one of the nurses can take you while we get Captain Rogers stitched up and into recovery.”

Tony’s pale with relief when he glances down at him, leans down to bump his lips against his forehead again. He can still see the fear in Tony’s eyes though.

“Once you and your baby are both stable, Captain, we can arrange for you to see him.” The nurse continues.

“Not mine.” He chokes out around the hollowness inside him where relief had been moments before.

Tony’s face falls, hurt mixing with the fear.

He turns his head, looking away from them. Grits his teeth and tries to focus on the sting and pull as they stitch up the wound again. It does nothing for the aching chasm inside him.

He feels Tony moving away from him, knows he says something but he doesn’t hear it over the bitterness inside his mind.

_ You promised you wouldn’t leave. _ He wants to say it, but he knew all along that it was going to happen.

 

They finish stitching him closed, increasing the level of pain medication until he feels woozy with it. Though that could equally be the fact that he’d been cut open and had something pulled out of him, or the fact that he watched Tony disappear out of the room, following nurses pushing a cart with a clear plastic box on top of it. It left him alone but for the doctors, crashing and spiralling out of control, without Tony there to whisper comforts against his skin.

He’s cold, impossibly cold when they wheel him out of surgery and back into the hospital room he’d been in before. The nurses layer blankets over him as he shivers, hook new bags up to the drip stand and explain that one of them is pain medication. The hand him a lead with a button on it, telling him it’s a call button and that he should press it if he needs anything. As soon as they leave the room he drops the button onto the floor and tries to roll onto his side, legs still tingling like they used to before the serum, when he’d sit a certain way and pinch off the blood supply. The incision in his abdomen pulls as he tries to shift, he stubbornly ignores it until he’s on his left side, facing away from the door.

It hurts, lying like that, but he doesn’t feel like he has the energy or will to roll back over again. He welcomes the pain, it reminds him that the parasite isn’t inside him anymore.

No, the baby they had cut out of him is in a plastic box somewhere, getting kept alive because his body had refused to be responsible for that any longer.

He presses his hand to his stomach, feeling ache and stinging pain radiate from the touch. He feels stretched skin, loose, empty, not recovered yet, and for the first time in eight months, he feels truly alone.

 

Doctor Andrews comes to see him not long after they move him back into the room. She barks out a reprimand at him for lying on his side, calls a nurse in to help her get him settled on his back again. He appreciates the fact that she doesn’t try and coddle him, that she doesn’t treat him delicately, but gives instructions with military efficiency, her voice no nonsense until he’s settled back into the bed and the nurse is changing the dressing on the stitched wound on his stomach, since his shifting had caused it to bleed through the first already.

“Captain Rogers, you need to take it easy.” Doctor Andrews tells him, as the nurse, Colin cleans up the dressing supplies and slips back out of the room.

He frowns at the space behind her right shoulder, still feeling blank and empty, hollowed out on the inside.

“I just came to report that the baby is stable. He’s responding well to all the tests, even breathing unassisted, which doesn’t always happen with babies born at thirty six weeks. He’s been moved out of the NICU and into the special care nursery.” Doctor Andrews tells him, voice deliberately professional and impassive. A mission report. “You need to get some rest, your body has been through a lot of trauma, whether you want to acknowledge that or not. Doctor Molloy and I will be back later to talk to you about recovery plans and your other upcoming surgery.”

He blinks once, still staring at the wall, and thinks about having to go through it all again. “So he didn’t cut that out while he was there?”

She shakes her head, a sharp brisk movement. “You knew that was never going to happen. The hysterectomy is still booked for next month.”

Closing his eyes he pretends that he’s going to rest, even though he thinks that will be impossible. Every fibre of his body aches, leeching the pain from his abdomen and dragging it out to his toes, fingertips and scalp. He thinks of Tony bumping masked kisses against his forehead and wishes he hadn’t left him alone.

 

He sleeps in fits and starts, any movement tugging at the stitches holding him together, or making something throb with pain deep inside him. It wakes him constantly, feeling groggy and disoriented each time, and when it isn’t the pain it’s Colin or another nurse coming to check on him. Whenever he wakes there’s a moment of disassociated panic because he can’t feel the parasite moving inside him, only to be painfully reminded that it’s no longer there.

He doesn’t miss it. He’s glad that it’s no longer there, weighing him down, making him useless, but he misses Tony’s near constant presence that carrying his baby had brought him. His knees and back ache for no reason, every too deep breath makes it feel like he’s about to spill his intestines out all over the bed and he wishes that Tony was there with his warm calloused hands to hold him together.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter everyone! Whoo, we're getting there. Now we know that this has been a pretty hard hitting story emotionally, which is exactly how we designed it. And for those of you who are wondering how we're going to get to a happy ending with only two chapters to go, well, happy might be a bit of a stretch. 
> 
> There is going to be another story after this. When, I'm not sure. So far there's 500-ish words and a whole lot of me hitting my head against the desk and grizzling to Sap that I just can't get Steve to be happy. But it will happen. Some day. Even if you can't trust me (notorious flake) to write it, you can trust Sap to make me write it. 
> 
> On a different note, my good friend and usual beta (but not this time - that job fell to the wonderful KittKat) [quandong_crumble](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quandong_crumble/pseuds/quandong_crumble) made a mood board/photo edit for this fic. It can be found [here](http://s-hylor.tumblr.com/post/181219377988/edit-by-quandongcrumble-for-nothing-shines-upon) on tumblr.

He wakes when the pain gets too intense, when the drugs have all burnt out of his system and there is nothing between him and the pain except fingers slowly brushing through his hair and the soft murmur of words that he can’t focus on enough to understand.

When he finally works his eyes open, Tony’s sitting there at his bedside, one hand brushing his hair back from his temple, the other holding his carefully.

Tony smiles at him, small and soft, when he notices he’s awake. “Hello, darling. How are you feeling?”

His tongue feels too thick and dry to try and form words so he just glares at Tony in response, unimpressed that for a genius Tony can’t guess how terrible he feels. The corners of Tony’s eyes crinkle, but he frowns slightly at the same time. Pulling his hand away from Steve’s, Tony reaches over to the bedside table, coming back with a cup of water with a straw poking out the top.

He takes a sip of water when Tony offers it to him, enough to swish around his mouth, rehydrate his tongue and gums. The nurses were always reminding him to drink more water, every time they came to check on him, so he sucks on the straw some more, feeling foolish having Tony hold the cup for him. The soft look of concern in Tony’s eyes doesn’t help.

“Better?” Tony asks when he turns his face away from the straw, setting the cup back on the bedside table.

Nodding, he settles back against the pillows, trying to find a comfortable position, but something isn’t quite right. Standing up, Tony leans over the bed, one arm sliding beneath his shoulders, lifting him up a little, the other hand shifting the pillows around. He’s face is almost pressed into Tony’s chest, nose level with the buttons of his shirt that are no longer done all the way up, skin and chest hair blurring in front of his eyes. He smells like his usual cologne, the laundry detergent lingering on his shirt, nervous sweat and something else he can’t place. It makes him want to wrap his arms around Tony, pull him close, bury his face against his chest and not let go. Not let him go, so he can’t leave him alone again.

He doesn’t. Not matter how much he wants to. He lets Tony settle him back against the pillows, closes his eyes against the burn in them when Tony brushes his fingers through his hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. It lingers a long time, long enough Steve feels like he’s going to crack open and break into pieces if Tony keeps showing affection like this.

Tony straightens up after a moment, hand still stroking through his hair, thumb brushing against his temple. “Are you doing okay?”

It feels like the answer should be obvious, but he thinks Tony is asking a lot more than the words might imply. He grits his teeth, trying to keep himself from snapping that no, he isn’t okay, but he’s not sure what the problem is now. The pain is obvious, but it’s not like it’s the first time that he’s been injured and had to stay in hospital. There’s something else, something that he can’t explain, that makes him feel like he’s been hollowed out on the inside, from chest cavity to pelvis, it feels like everything has been dragged out of him and is never going to come back.

In the end he just tries to nod his head. It seems pointless to bother Tony with his problems when he isn’t even sure what they exactly are. Part way through he feels it shift to a shake instead of a nod.

Tony’s hand smooths through his hair, trailing down the side of his face, cupping his jaw. He feels Tony press another kiss to his forehead, making his eyes sting even more.

“I’m sorry darling, that you had to go through that. I’m so sorry.”  Tony whispers, resting his forehead against Steve’s, breath fanning out over his face. “You were so brave, so strong, and I’m never going to be able to thank you enough for going through that for me.”

He knows what Tony is talking about, know what he’s referring to his son, the baby he must have left in the nursery in order to come visit Steve, the son he no doubt is impatient to get back to. He’s too selfish to let Tony just slip away again, to leave him alone, so he reaches up, feeling the cannula tugging at his skin and the drip line tangling around his arm, but ignoring it to close his hand around the front of Tony’s shirt and hold on for dear life.

 

When Doctor Andrews and Doctor Molloy come past to talk to him, Tony is still there, sitting in the chair next to the bed, one hand curled around Steve’s wrist, thumb rubbing absently at the point of bone beneath his skin. Doctor Molloy talks about the surgery and postoperative care, what to look out for, what the usual recovery rates are for someone, and how the operation in a months time will likely proceed. He doesn’t really want to think about getting cut open again just yet, wishes they’d just gone ahead and done it all in one hit like he’d suggested they should. He bites his tongue to stop himself grumbling about it again, because then he’d just have disapproving doctors lecturing him about safe medical practice again.

Tony’s hand tightens around his wrist, face getting a steely look about it when they bring up the next operation. There’s something almost like disappointment in his eyes when he shoots Steve a look, which he resolutely ignores. He doesn’t want to think about what it means.

“Usually we like to keep patients in for three to five days after a caesarian, to monitor and assist you while you’re still in recovery.” Doctor Molloy explains. “Your case is a peculiar one, with your accelerated healing factors, but your body has also undergone a lot of stress that it was never designed to do.”

Frowning at wall in between the two doctors. “How long do I need to stay here, then?”

Doctor Molloy doesn’t even pause at the sharpness in his voice. “My recommendation is five days, and then monitoring and assistance when you leave here as well.”

He shifts his glare over to the surgeon, who doesn’t so much as flinch, meeting his gaze firmly. “You realise I heal quicker than normal people, right?”

Doctor Molloy nods. “Yes, I am aware of that, Mr Stark provided us with a lot of detailed reports from SHIELD on the matter. I’m also aware that you underwent surgery without effective pain medication or anaesthetic. Your body went through excessive trauma due to this, and you lost more blood that most female patients usually do. Your particular case has a lot of unknowns in it, Captain Rogers, so it is my recommendation that until you have fully recovered, you need to either be here in the hospital, or have someone around who can keep an eye on you.”

Tony’s grip on his wrist grows steadily tighter as Doctor Molloy spoke, until it’s almost uncomfortable. “Steve can come stay with me again.”

When he turns to glare at Tony he’s met with a look that’s almost pleading, as though Tony really wants him to go home with him again, and it’s enough to stop him from arguing. “I’ll stay with Tony.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, my friends, at the end. For now. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been here for the ride. The comments and support have been amazing. Sap and I have both really appreciated the love that has been shown to this story, even when it’s been a bit rough. And there were a lot of rough moments in this story. And there will be more in the next, as I’m sure you can imagine. 
> 
> Thanks again for the support. Enjoy the last chapter.

“I'll stay with Tony.” Did he really say that? Those four unsettling words ring like an echo in his head, as a disconnected, receding sound but never disappearing. Steve is trying to ignore the smile that Tony gave him in response. It's not that he hated being at Tony's before, the company was appreciated, but now all he wants to do is go home and forget that any of this happened. He tells himself that it's the best choice from a list of bad options. He can stay with Tony for a few weeks, and then go home and get back on with his life. What little he had of one, anyway.

By the time they bring him dinner that night, Steve thinks five days in hospital is going to be the end of him. He’s bored, uncomfortable and in pain. On top of that, his skin is starting to itch and he thinks he’ll just about punch Colin’s teeth in the next time the nurse tells him that, “no, he can’t get up and have a shower by himself just yet.” He doesn’t, because he knows that he’s just doing his job, and he’d much rather Colin’s tough but fair approach than the coddling some of the other nurses do. In any other situation, he thinks the two of them might get along, but right now it’s a battle between what he wants to do and what Colin will let him do.

Tony left just before dinner arrived, the alarm going off on his watch, dragging his attention away from Steve with an apology and a promise to be back later.

Sleep feels impossible, with the ache in his stomach and the hollow feeling inside him, no amount of pain medication they give him seems to alleviate the feelings. They do frequent blood pressure checks, each time it gets better, though Colin still frowns in concern at the readings every time he checks it. It’s only after he’s eaten, when Colin is there doing observations again that he finally feels like he’s getting anywhere.

As Colin is removing the pressure cuff and packing away the obs cart, jotting down the last of the readings, he hums in contemplation before turning to Steve. “You’re blood pressure is finally returning to normal. If you get a couple hours sleep now, when you wake up, we’ll try getting you out of bed for a bit of a walk around.”

It feels like an achievement even though it shouldn’t.

He falls asleep despite the pain, despite his skin itching and feeling like he wants to scratch at the stitched wound on his stomach until he opens it up again.

 

Tony is there again when he wakes up, slumped in the armchair in the corner of the room, jacket covering him like a blanket and fast asleep, head tipped to one side. Still groggy from sleep, all Steve can think is that it can’t be very comfortable, but then it only seems fair, since he’s far from being comfortable himself. Despite being uncomfortable, despite the intensifying pain coming back as the effects of the last painkillers wear off, he doesn’t call for the nurses because he doesn’t want to wake up Tony. He looks exhausted, even asleep, and he knows it’s most likely his fault. His own insomnia keeping Tony up all hours of the night sitting on the couch with him watching mindless television. It makes him feel guilty, but he probably can’t avoid that.

When the hour rolls around, Colin is there with the obs cart again, his entry into the room waking Tony up. Steve glares at Colin as viciously as he can, but the nurse simply ignores the look and goes about his job. They go through the motions again, Tony slips out of the room part way through, saying he had to go somewhere. He doesn’t even have to say where he’s going; Steve knows he’s going back to see his son, and he hates himself for the stab of jealousy it brings. The baby needs Tony more than he does.

He should be grateful really, it means that Tony isn’t in the room to witness Steve’s first attempt at getting out of bed and walking across the room. It’s pain like he never remembers feeling before. Every movement tugs at the wound, pulling at the one inside him too. It make him shake, feel light headed, like he’s going to vomit and collapse all at once, but he doesn’t let it. He locks his knees and keeps himself standing, nearly bending the bed frame where he clings to it trying to find his balance. Colin is there, next to him the whole time, a firm hand on the back of his shoulder, guiding him, pushing him to take another step, not coddling him.

By the time he settles back in the bed again he can feel himself sweating, wants more than anything to take a shower, but when he asks, Colin shakes his head.

“Not right now, Captain Rogers. There’s time tomorrow morning for you to shower if you’re feeling up to it.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever been so keen for someone to assist him through a shower in his life.

 

Pain and boredom drive him nearly mad. The monotony is only broken by walks, leg exercises, sleep and Tony’s visits. He goes to sleep sometimes in an empty room and wakes up to Tony being slumped in the armchair in the corner of the room, also asleep. Sometimes he’ll go to sleep with Tony in the room and wakes up alone. Those occurrences are by far the worst.

He wakes up early one morning to an empty room, needing to go to the toilet, since they’d removed the urinary catheter the day before, he doesn’t even bother calling for one of the nurses, just manoeuvring himself carefully out of the bed and heading for the adjoining bathroom. The longer he spends standing the less the pain bothers him, even though it feels like everything inside him has pooled at the bottom of his stomach and it pressing out against the stitches.

Getting back to the hospital room, Steve looks at the bed, his prison for the last few days, then looks at the bag of clothes and books that Tony have thrown together for him on their way to the hospital. Deciding he’s had enough of the hospital room for a while he grabs the bag, rummaging through it until he finds a pair of track pants, an undershirt and the softest knit sweater that’s in there. Getting dressed is a bigger effort than it has any right to be, trying to bend down to pull on his pants, he can’t even fathom attempting to put shoes on, so once he’s dressed he pads out of the hospital room barefoot.

The hospital grade linoleum is cold underfoot, but it helps him cool down again after his effort of getting dressed. It’s still the early hours of the morning, only the night shift staff on; he can see lights on in the nurses station, can hear voices chatting in the same direction. He turns the opposite direction and starts his slow wandering down the corridor. Without a destination in mind he just wanders, until he can feel himself sweating again from the pain, the hot cold ache it brings. The distance back to the room feels impossible, so he doesn’t turn around and go back, he just keeps wandering.

He’s not really sure where he’s going, doesn’t really care, until he sees the sign at the junction of a corridor. He follows the signs until he’s blinking at the large glass window and all the room beyond it.

There’s lines of hospital cribs set up, some of them occupied by swaddled babies, others empty. There are people in the room behind the window too, nurses and Tony. Tony is sitting in a chair against one wall, side on the to window, his head tipped down and focus entirely on the small baby settled against his chest. His shirt is open, so the baby is lying directly against his skin, a white blanket covering him and one of Tony’s hands holding him there.

The baby looks impossibly tiny, based on what Steve can see; one small head covered in a little blue beanie, the outline of a tiny body beneath the blanket, nearly dwarfed by Tony’s hand. He didn’t see it when they cut it out of him, hadn’t wanted to, but it had felt so much larger when it had been growing inside of him.  _ He _ had, Steve corrects in his mind. The baby is a boy. Tony’s son.

Not an it. Not a parasite.

Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ll see you all for part three of this series. Not sure when that’ll happen, haven’t written a whole lot for it yet, but it will happen.


End file.
